


Decision Height

by Mazarin221b



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst and Humor, First Time, M/M, Staged Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-13
Updated: 2011-10-13
Packaged: 2017-10-24 14:23:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a Prompt: <i>Douglas or Martin convinces the other to kiss him in a public place. The other realizes this is their one opportunity to kiss the man they are in love with and puts everything they've got into it, knocking the other off their feet (metaphorically speaking). Eleventy-hundred bonus Internet points for followup Douglas/Martin sexytimes.</i></p><p><i>"Douglas is uncharacteristically nervous when he knocks on the door of the shabby little hotel  room  a few hours later. It’s ridiculous that he should be undone by such a man as Martin Crieff – little Martin, timid and hesitant and bearer of more bad luck and awkward circumstance than anyone Douglas had ever met in his life."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Decision Height

Over the years, Douglas Richardson has become really good at tuning out inane chatter when he needs to. Whether from irritating passengers or even more irritating cabin-crew, he barely needs to flip his mental switch for it all to revert to a soft, pleasant buzzing.

Of course, working at MJN Air has provided a fair field to perfect this skill, and never so badly needed as it is at this moment, with Martin droning away at his side as they make their way down the concourse of the Rio de Janeiro airport about …well. Something or other.

“—like I was saying, Douglas, I decide whether or not we have the fuel to make another go round, not YOU. I’m the captain, and—”

Oh good god, still on that, is he? “When Sir can do the maths in his head faster than I can, certainly. But as ATC was still waiting for you and your pencil to agree, I thought it prudent to take the bold step of _giving them an answer.”_ Douglas rolls his eyes, idly taking in the crew walking toward them on the concourse. There’s something familiar in the set of those shoulders, the over-confident swagger and the jaunty angle of the hat. Oh _hell._

Martin huffs beside him, his annoyance making him petulant. “Dividing by 26 isn’t nearly as easy as you seem to make it, Douglas, and I had to take into account the headwind—oof!”

Douglas turns in a quick arc, crowding Martin against the rough vinyl wallpaper of the Rio de Janiero Airport concourse.  If he’s quick, it’ll be believable. “Listen, just go with it. I’ll give you all of the cheese tray next flight and buy you a steak at the hotel.”

Martin stares at him with wild eyes. “What? W-w-why? What are you doing?” He tries to crane his head to look around Douglas’ shoulder to see what Douglas has obviously seen. Douglas pushes him back lightly.

“Shut up, for God’s sake,” Douglas says, “And don’t look.” He kisses him firmly, wrapping one hand around Martin’s surprisingly graceful neck and the other around his waist. Martin’s lips are unmoving, the shock making him rigid, his hands clutching at Douglas’s biceps. Douglas pulls back a little, throwing a quick look over his shoulder at the  group working their way ever closer to where he and Martin are standing . “A little enthusiasm wouldn’t go amiss,” he whispers.

Martin’s eyes flick down to Douglas’ lips and he tastes his own mouth with a swipe of his tongue. His eyes crinkle a little at the corners, a mischievous glint that Douglas rarely sees, and Douglas almost falls back in shock when his mouth is suddenly plundered, Martin’s full lips moving over his, a slick tongue caressing his own.  Douglas can’t believe it—Martin is an amazing kisser, just the right amount of pressure, not too wet, not too fast.  It’s fair to say that the haplessness that characterizes the majority of Martin’s life Douglas thought would extend to more intimate settings, but it seems he is wrong. Oh, is he ever. Martin’s mouth is hot and eager, and he kisses like he’s throwing himself off of a cliff, reveling in the free-fall and unconcerned about the consequences.

Douglas finds his mind getting a bit hazy under the onslaught, trying to give back as good as he’s getting, but when Martin slips his long fingers between the buttons of Douglas’ uniform shirt, he pulls back in shock.

“Trying to earn yourself a bottle of wine, are you?” he pants, trying to calm his rough breathing and stuttering heart. It wouldn’t do to let Martin think he’d been affected; he’d never hear the end of it if he had.

Martin looks up at him with those unearthly green eyes of his, his copper fringe a bit mussed and his hat askew.  “You said to show some enthusiasm,” he says, his voice a bit fluttery, his cheeks a charming shade of pink. He straightens his hat a bit and pushes away from the wall, striding off down the concourse, leaving Douglas staring after him.

Douglas turns to see that the group has passed without comment, so they must not have noticed. But as Douglas starts to walk toward the bar for a much needed beverage and a spot to think,  the object of the entire charade throws a look back over his shoulder at Douglas, catches his eye, and winks.

……………………………..

Douglas is uncharacteristically nervous when he knocks on the door of the shabby little hotel  room  a few hours later. It’s ridiculous that he should be undone by such a man as Martin Crieff – little Martin, timid and hesitant and bearer of more bad luck and awkward circumstance than anyone Douglas had ever met in his life. Martin Crieff, whose kiss was _knowing_ , warm and sweet and wicked and, it seems, able to linger in his mind longer than it should do. He’d not seen Martin since the airport, and his calls and texts have gone unanswered.  As, apparently, is his knock. He smooths down his shirt and pounds on the door again.

The door swings open and Martin is there, wearing a shabby grey t-shirt with “Fly” printed on it in faded blue and flannel pajama bottoms, despite the fact that it’s barely six o’ clock in the evening, Rio time. 

“You’re not going to be able to hide forever,” Douglas says, pushing his way past a flustered Martin and into the room. “I told you I’d take you out for dinner, and I will.”

Martin staggers backward as Douglas pushes past him. “Well, I … ate, already. And I’m not that hungry. I’m really tired, so if you would just….”

Douglas ignores his protest, taking in the carefully packed suitcase sitting on the luggage rack, Martin’s uniform hung on the hook on the back of the door. He would be this neat, wouldn’t he? Perfect and prim on the outside, but Douglas is getting the feeling there’s a bit more on the inside than even he realized. 

“I’m old enough to recognize a brush-off when I am the intended target of one,” he says, before sitting on the bed, leaning back against the headboard and crossing his ankles. “And you’re perfectly justified in being angry with me because let’s face it, it was an abominable abuse of trust for me to do what I did.”

Martin stands the end of the bed, looking down at Douglas with a suitably wary expression. “Why did you do it, then?”

Douglas pauses. “To prove a point.”

“To whom?”

“To … someone.”

“What someone?”

“Let’s just say that it’s a someone who told another someone that he was terrible with men, to keep his attention focused on the ladies as they’d appreciate him more.  That sort of someone. No one we know, understand.”

Martin has a confused little smile on his face. “So … this someone just needed to be shown that wasn’t the case, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

Martin looks at Douglas like he’s lost his mind, and it seems he has, given that he’d all but told him about Jack, about the fact that Jack had thrown him over for a gorgeous, fit, younger man almost 8 years ago now, and that he had, without exception, been only with women since then.  He’d forgotten how much he’d enjoyed men—and Martin’s little demonstration had cracked open a door he’d told himself was firmly shut a long time ago. But perhaps a peek wouldn’t hurt. 

“All square, then?” he asks, watching Martin cross his arms over his rather nicely shaped chest. He’s clearly waiting for the other shoe to drop, his posture radiating hesitation. Douglas rolls his eyes. “I came to apologize, nothing more than that. And take you to dinner. I may be a lot of things, Martin, but I’m not a welsher. Get dressed,” he says, vaulting up from the bed and snatching a shirt and trousers from Martin’s bag, tossing them at his startled face. “I’ll wait for you downstairs. “

……………………………………………………………………………………….

Martin is downstairs about ten minutes later, wearing not what Douglas had thrown at him, but a soft white linen shirt over coppery brown trousers. The shirt is fitted and smooth across his shoulders, and a massive step up from his normal attire.

“Looking rather dapper, Captain,” Douglas says, pinching the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. “’Icarus must be profitable this time of year.”

Martin blushes bright scarlet. “No, no, not really. I mean, the shirt, yes, the shirt was a, uh, gift. A gift from my cousin. He’d gotten too fat to wear it, so, he thought of me.” Martin looks like he wishes the ground would swallow him whole by this point, and Douglas is a bit curious. He knows what he hopes to gain by buying Martin dinner tonight—a bit of insight into Martin’s more personal experiences, a little goodwill  and, perhaps, if he plays this right, a chance at a repeat performance of earlier this afternoon.  But that doesn’t explain Martin being so out of sorts. They’d had dinner any number of times before now—could it be that _Martin_ … well. That would explain the kiss earlier today, the ignored texts, the stuttering and the red face, wouldn’t it? Classic signs of a Martin on the hunt.  Interesting.

Douglas leans forward and brushes a piece of non-existent lint from Martin’s shoulder. “And aren’t I the fortunate beneficiary of your cousin’s … largesse.”  That was weak, even for him. The buzzy anticipation of something new has him off his game, has thrown him for a bit of a loop because he still can’t get over that it’s _Martin_ he’s about to escort to dinner.

Martin smiles anyway, and Douglas is charmed. Martin rarely smiles fully; he usually looks like he’s fighting off his smile, unsure if he should take the risk of showing joy or happiness. Not that Douglas can blame him much. It has been demonstrated any number of times, and to full effect, that Martin’s life isn’t a particularly happy one outside the cockpit.

Douglas leads the way to the restaurant down the street and asks the maître d’ in somewhat passable Portuguese for a small, intimate table for two. The maître d’ gives a bit of a start, but leads them to a table tucked away at the back of the restaurant, a small, quiet space out of the main aisle. Douglas orders wine over Martin’s protests—they’ve more than 12 hours until they fly home, after all—and pauses until the waiter pours the single glass before speaking.

“Bit more upscale than we normally get, I grant you, but, well, I do actually owe you for what you endured, and I thank you for not punching me in the nose for it.”

Martin fiddles with his napkin. “So why the charade? Not because I want one over on you, although that would be a nice side benefit – but … you never seemed interested in men before.”

“I was interested,” Douglas starts, “but circumstances since then gave me the gift of two ex-wives and a daughter. Life’s funny that way, isn’t it?”

Martin smirks, and they talk of inconsequential things—flying and Carnivale and flying and Arthur’s latest pick from the pony club and flying until the food arrives. Martin turns to his meal, eyes huge at the size of the steak on his plate. “I’ll never eat it,” he says in awe.

“You need the protein,” Douglas says, then rolls his eyes at himself. Smooth, Richardson. Remind him of his father, why don’t you. “So tell me, Martin, since we were on the topic of all my spectacular relationship failures, there must be a few lurking around your closet, eh?

Martin laughs, a raw little sound that is self-conscious, self-depreciating, and nervous. He takes a quick swallow of wine. “Not much to tell, really. Last boyfriend left me when I joined MJN. Nothing since then.”

 _When he joined MJN?_ “Do you mean he left you _because_ you joined MJN? Granted, we’re not the smartest outfit going, but there’s no need to be a snob about it.”

Marin chews slowly, glancing down at the table. “He said it was ‘beneath his dignity’ to date a man who would be willing to work for free,” he says quietly.

Douglas feels his mouth tighten for a moment before he forces a smile. “After sampling the rather unexpected delights, Martin, I’d have to say that’s certainly his loss.”

Martin blushes. “Stop taking the piss.”

“Oh, I’m not,” Douglas says, and he feels his stomach tighten in anticipation. “Matter of fact, I’d say that despite the rather unorthodox situation, your kissing technique rates so highly I’d been thinking of it all afternoon.”

Martin jerks his head up sharply and trains those gorgeous eyes right on his. He looks wary, and about 30 seconds from convincing himself that Douglas really has lost his mind. _Tread carefully_ , Douglas’ mind warns him. 

“Knock it off,” Martin says. “It’s bad enough you kissed me without meaning it, now I have to deal with you-“

Bingo. “Oh, would you rather I’d have meant it?”

“No! I mean, I…no, of course not, we work together, and wouldn’t _that_ just be awkward.” Martin grabs his glass and downs about half of the remaining wine, probably to keep himself from talking any more.

Douglas reaches across the table to place his fingers gently on Martin’s wrist. Martin stares at where they’re touching, looking like he isn’t sure if he should pull away or not. Douglas can feel the beginnings of a tremor working its way through Martin’s skin.

“So, if we didn’t work together, then that would be less awkward, and therefore acceptable.”

“No!” Martin shouts, drawing stares. “No, Douglas, I don’t think that at all. It’s just your ego talking.”

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks,” Douglas says blithely. Oh, this is fun, stripping away all the pointless layers over what he’s determined is a relatively strong attraction.

At least, it was fun, until Martin shoves back from the table and darts for the door. Damn, damn, damn. He knew he needed to be careful, and now he’s just pushed that bit too far. He throws a pile of cash on the table, hoping like hell it covers the bill, and hits the door a step after Martin does.

“Martin!” he calls. “Martin, wait.”

“Piss off, Douglas,” Martin says, striding down the street with his hands shoved deep in his pockets and his head down.

“Look, let me get a cab, at least.”

“I’d rather walk.”

“You’ve had almost half a bottle of wine, you’re in Rio, and its dark. At least let me walk with you.”

“No.”

“Dammit, Martin,” Douglas says, and reaches out to grab Martin’s arm to halt his progress. “Stop being an idiot.”

Martin spins back and jerks his arm from Douglas’ grasp. “Well, that’s what it all boils down to, isn’t it?” he says, his voice strained. “I’m an idiot. I know that’s what you think of me, so don’t think you can come sniffing around for a quick shag because you decided cock sounded nice tonight and think I’m desperate enough to let you. I’m not.”

Douglas stops short at this bald assessment of pretty much exactly what he’d been thinking, with one notable exception. “Don’t you think if I’d wanted a quick shag without strings attached, I’d have found someone to have with that wasn’t as complicated as the person sitting next to me in the cockpit of an aeroplane?”

“So what are you after, then? Another chance to find something you’re better at? Another opportunity to laugh at me?”

“I don’t know!” Douglas huffs. “I thought we could have a nice time, a good meal, maybe a snog if you felt up to it, see where things went! Why does it have to be more complicated than that?”

Martin goes pale. “You, you, you want to … to try … ” He’s so flustered now he can barely get his words out.

Douglas steps forward and cups his palm around Martin’s cheek, the light stubble tickling his palm. “Let’s just have a little trial run. A test flight, if you will. If we crash and burn, no hard feelings, eh?” Douglas drops his voice, feeling a slight shiver run down his back as he says, “But I can’t stop thinking about your mouth. Really. That was one of the top ten kisses I’ve ever had, and that includes that bartender in Marseilles.”

Martin closes his eyes and swallows heavily. He’s no longer pulling away, and Douglas thinks he might be able to risk it. He dips his head to brush his lips lightly across Martin’s mouth, feeling his warm, full lips part lightly on a surprised breath.

“Come on,” Douglas whispers, “Let’s just try.”

“I want to,” Martin says, opening his eyes. “I thought this afternoon was going to be my one shot, honestly. But so help me, Douglas, if this is another one of your jokes – “

“Your one shot, was it?” Douglas says, feeling smug. “I worked out that you might be interested, but I never thought you’d been dreaming of it.”

Martin rolls his eyes. “Just – stop talking, Richardson.”

Douglas grins. Martin is awfully attractive when he’s exasperated. “With pleasure,” he says, and bends to kiss him again, feeling Martin’s mouth open under his, sampling the warm, wine-tinged taste of Martin’s tongue tangling with his own.  It’s comfortable and sweet, until Martin tips his head to slant their mouths together more tightly and wraps his arms around Douglas’ waist, pulling him in against his body. With that sudden movement, the kiss turns urgent and blisteringly hot, and Douglas pulls back, slightly dazed. Good God, he really can kiss, Douglas thinks wildly, and, in spite of his assurances that they’d take things slowly, his body is starting to be very, very interested in what other things Martin might be able to do.

“Back to the hotel?” he asks, a little breathless. “There are things I’m thinking of that would probably get us arrested if I tried them out here.”

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

The cab ride back is mostly quiet, Martin drumming his fingers on the seat and turning to Douglas every so often like he wants to say something but can’t find the words. Douglas is content to watch him, studying the profile he knows so well from hours and hours of seeing it next to him in GERTIs cockpit.

He honestly knows that this could be a spectacular disaster – Martin is timid, indecisive, and almost obsessive with respect to rules and regulations at the best of times. He drives Douglas round the bend on a regular basis, and one of his joys in life is needling Martin until he’s so flustered his ears go pink.

Despite that, Martin is his friend, and one of his best friends at that. Martin is funny, and a bit silly, and a better pilot than he thinks he is. A more intimate relationship between them could really be a bonus, if things go well.

“Mine or yours?” Douglas asks as he guides Martin down the hall with one hand on the small of his back. It’s a rhetorical question, really, as they’re all about the same—tiny rooms on the backside of a seedy hotel with a few more occupants than are strictly paid for.

Martin stops and leans against his door, and when Douglas turns to follow him, Martin has the door open behind his back and a grip on Douglas’ shirt in a heartbeat, dragging him through the doorway and into another of those spine melting kisses.  “Mine,” he whispers against the skin of Douglas’ throat before dragging his lips back up his jawline to peck little kisses across Douglas’ chin.

“Oh Martin, you are a scalawag,” Douglas says, delighted that Martin has dropped his reserve a little more behind closed doors. The room is lovely and cool, and he feels Martin’s skin pebble into gooseflesh when he slides his hand up Martin’s shirt to caress his slim back. “I’d like to take this off, at least, if I may?” He can feel the lithe muscles under his hands and he wants to at least have a decent view.

“I will if you will,” Martin says, reaching for Douglas’ buttons.

“Certainly,” Douglas says, and helps Martin with the task. “Whatever you like. But I have no illusions that my body will set the house on fire, I’ve kept fit, but I’m a middle aged man used to cockpit seats and too many steaks for his own good. You, on the other hand,” Douglas reaches for Martins shirt next, leaving his own unbuttoned and hanging over his shoulders, “are a young man who shifts furniture in your spare time, and probably hasn’t smelled a cream cake since Blair was in Downing Street.” He pushes the shirt from Martin’s body, and steps back to admire. He is beautifully defined, the cut of his abs over his hips so tantalizing that Douglas reaches out to draw a finger along it.

Martin shivers at the contact, then looks down at his own body. “Too skinny, too pale, too small,” he says unhappily.

“Not a bit of it. Lovely and strong. Come on.” Douglas pulls Martin to the bed and sits down, leaving Martin standing in front of him. “If this is going to work, no more talk like that. Only confident, strapping, manly men in this room.” He flutters his fingers along Martin’s sides, making him laugh and hunch over a bit. “Are we clear?” He dives in again, digging his fingers in a bit and really giving him a good one before blowing a raspberry against his stomach.

“Stop it!” Martin yelps and grabs at his hands, pushing against them until Douglas falls onto his back. Martin climbs up over him, straddling his hips and pinning his hands to the bed to hold them still. “I bet you’re ticklish somewhere,” he says, and gets that look again, the mischievous one that means Douglas is probably in trouble.

“Martin,” he starts, trying to fend off Martin’s attempts to tickle his sides. Good God, this is undignified. Fun, though. “Martin, stop!” Douglas breaks out in ridiculous giggles as Martin’s fingers skate up his sides and around his stomach before pinching him right above the hip. “Ouch! You little –“ Douglas sits up quickly and shifts his weight before Martin can react so that he ends up on top, pinning Martin to the bed, his hips nicely framed by Martin’s thighs. The laughter dies away as they both realize their current position.

“Got you now,” Douglas whispers, feeling the tension skyrocket at the sight of Martin breathing hard below him.

Martin gazes up at him for a moment, then rolls his hips slightly, the movement pushing them together much more intimately than before. “You do,” he says quietly, “But I think I quite like it.”

That’s all it takes for Douglas to dip down to kiss him deeply and thoroughly, encouraging Martin to wind a leg around his hips.  Douglas kisses down his long neck, leaving tiny lovebites over Martin’s sharp collarbones before coming back to that gorgeous, talented mouth to kiss and tease and lick all over again.

Martin makes the most delightful sounds, whimpers and sighs and moans, and Douglas can’t help but want to push for more, try to encourage more pleasure from Martin’s lithe body.

“Trousers?” he asks, and Martin nods, slithering out from under Douglas’ body to hastily unbutton and shove his trousers down, kicking them off from around his ankles and leaving him in nothing but a pair of worn boxer shorts which do nothing at all to hide his rather prominent erection. Douglas stares, feeling the heat course through his belly. It’s been so long since he’s touched a man, and it looks like his Captain has it where it counts, for once lucky in his life. He continues to slowly undress, leaving his trousers over the back of the chair, before he comes back to settle next to Martin on the bed.

Martin reaches for him, his hands barely hesitating to wrap around Douglas’ waist and encourage him back into their former position.  “Shall we try this?” he asks, cupping Douglas’ arse and pulling them together. Douglas gasps at the feel of their cocks pressed together between their bodies, the heat bleeding through their clothes. The sensation makes him ache, makes him want to rut against Martin’s thin body until he comes, gasping.

Martin seems to be thinking the same thing, because he arches rhythmically into Douglas’ body, his hands still splayed against Douglas’ backside. “It’s like riding a bicycle,” he teases. “You don’t ever really forget.”

Douglas hasn’t forgotten, not at all. He remembers the feel of a sturdier frame beneath his own, the tight heat of a man’s yielding body, the salty tang of come on his tongue.  He wants this, needs exactly this, right now.

“May I?” he asks quietly, leaning to the side and slipping his fingertips under the waistband of Martin’s shorts. 

“God, yes,”  Martin groans.

Douglas wastes no time pulling their shorts off, Martin’s first, then his own, and settles back where he was, pressing their bodies together with a gasp. “Oh God, you’re perfect, just like this.”

Martin smiles, happiness lighting his expression. “So are you,” he says, then moans softly when Douglas begins a slow thrust, dragging their cocks against each other.  Despite the air conditioning, he’s starting to sweat from the heat of Martin’s body and the humidity and his own exertion, and as he watches Martin’s face he sees the flush begin to spread down Martin’s neck and chest.  

“Can you, like this?” he asks.

“Yeah, with you,” Martin answers, tipping his face up to encourage another kiss. They’re good at this, kissing, and Martin’s talented tongue is enough to tip him over the edge from pleasantly aroused to rocketing toward orgasm in a heartbeat. His thrusts against Martin’s body become erratic, charged, and Martin’s moans against his mouth ratchet up the tension until it breaks and he comes, shivering. Martin’s hips are still moving, the slip-slide of their bodies a bit haphazard, so Douglas reaches between them to grasp Martin’s cock, stroking him, watching the tension coil tight in his body until he comes, too, shaking and gasping Douglas’ name.

Douglas settles next to him on the bed, propped up on one arm so he can see Martin’s face as clearly as possible. Now comes the aftermath, and Douglas has had enough of these to know that any possible regrets can come quickly.

Martin’s hazy, sated, but when he looks over at Douglas, the happiness and affection in his expression makes Douglas take a quick breath. Nothing like regret then, and Douglas finds he’s grinning stupidly back. This started out as a bit of a lark, but they really could be good at this, at them. Douglas realizes that he really wants to make this work, this time, suddenly aware of a sliver of a second chance he wasn’t even aware he wanted.

“Still flying?” he asks, tracing light patterns over Martin’s really quite nice bicep.

“I think we’re still steady,” Martin laughs, “as long as my copilot doesn’t botch the landing.”

Douglas brushes an errant red curl from Martin’s forehead. “With you as captain? Not a chance,” he says, and kisses him soundly.

 

 _Decision Height:  The height at which a decision must be made to either continue approach during an instrument landing, or execute a missed approach (abort)._   
__

 


End file.
